Aftereffects
by shade-of-lily
Summary: The morning after the fire. Takes place between the Pilot and Wendigo. LJ Challenge: NonDialogue. Please R&R!


Title: Aftereffects  
Disclaimer: There once were two really hot brothers, who hunted more evil than others. They liked holy ground and their angst was profound, and I'd own them if I had my druthers. (But I don't.)  
Spoilers: None. Well, technically, the pilot.  
Summary: the morning after the fire. Takes place between Pilot and Wendigo.  
Notes: One-shot. Short and angsty. This is un-betaed. I used a line from Aerosmith's "Cryin'" which isn't mine, and is used without permission.

Sam lay with his face buried in the thin motel pillow, trying not to exhale and trying not to think or remember or feel. Dean's light, even breathing came from another bed a few feet away from his. His brother's face was shining, freckles illuminated by the weak moonlight that filtered in through the grimy window. It looked relaxed, an expression that Sam was ill-used to seeing on Dean Winchester's normally tense features. Sam pushed his face back into the pillow, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of cheap perfume and fabric softener mixed with the smoke that still clung close to his skin like an old jacket. He had taken a shower, of course, but the smell remained, a jumble of fresh cookies and scorched flesh. He could smell her- sense her- everywhere. It was a fight to restrain himself from reaching out an arm to feel if she was lying next to him, her soft blonde hair falling over her smooth shoulders, her face clear and angelic in repose and her legs slightly bent at the knees, the way she always slept.

Sam found himself struggling to take a breath through the pillow and turned his face to the side again, the luxury of fresh air lost on him as he stared, dull-eyed, out the small window. The headlights of speeding cars on the highway were flowing up the side of the sill, the beams crystallized by the drips of rain running down the glass.

Red, green, yellow, white… the lights passed by in his vision, leaving glowing aftertrails painted on the inside of his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut like he used to when he was small, when he was naive enough to believe that shutting your eyes made the monsters go away. His heart needed to make up its mind on whether it was full or empty. It was overflowing with vacancy. The blank sensation wavered, expanding and contracting in monumental waves of anguish that made him rock back on his heels. Sam couldn't take it. He rolled over and gazed at the ceiling. The blankets were bunched by his feet, the sheets feeling dirty and the comforter stifling.  
The ceiling was bare.  
An open canvas, waiting for a psycho or some freak spirit to paint blossoming flames in the colors of passion. Flames that centered around-  
Sam didn't realize that he was crying until the wetness trailed down to his mouth and he tasted salt on his lips.

An hour or so later, Dean sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Sam had stopped crying about five minutes ago- the harsh, choked noises subsiding into weak gasps of air, into labored breathing, and finally into silence except for the slight rustle as Sam's chest rose and fell in time with Dean's heartbeat. It seemed unnaturally loud to his own ears, as if making up for the fact that Sam's wasn't in any position to be beating at the moment.

Dean padded, bare feet slipping over the dirty carpeting, to his little brother's bed, looking down at Sam's face. It was lit by the flickering neon sign outside and the lights of the passing traffic, creating shifting shadows under his eyes. He was shaking slightly. Dean leaned over and pulled up the blankets over Sam's shivering body, knowing that they wouldn't help.

The older hunter moved around the bed to the window and drew the stiff curtains shut, eyes stony as the room dropped off the edge and into dark. He walked to the small table in the corner that was crowded with everything they had been able to salvage from the apartment.

Some clothes that had been folded neatly inside the washing machine, a gun that had been hidden in the back of a closet, a charred photograph. The laptop, which had been dropped near the entrance.  
The fire had spread unbelievably quickly.  
Dean shifted the clothes to the foot of his bed- a flash of soft blue and two Smurfs kissing, folded on the top- and opened the laptop. The gun gleamed in the corner of the table, lit up with the light from the screen. Dean's hands moved slowly, uncertain in the dark, and began to set up a search. He stared at the screen as it ran, dates and numbers flashing by his eyes.

11-2-83.

35-111.

They needed a distraction.

Dean turned away and reached for the gun. The tune of Aerosmith's "Crying" came to his lips and he let it, the sound humming out as he worked.

Sam awoke at sunrise, bleary-eyed and bewildered at the song he had running through his head. The room was still dim, the curtains drawn and the lights off. Dean was asleep, still in yesterday's clothes.  
Yesterday.  
Sharp knives. Clean guns. The morning after. Sammy gripped the sheets twisted around him tightly, his fist turning white and his nails biting into his palm through the fabric. The pain that came with realization was physical and crippling, and it was minutes before he thought he could breathe again. He made himself stand, forced himself to go to the bathroom and wash off his face. Woke Dean up with a wooden look on his features, ignoring the concerned look his brother gave him in return. Made himself shove her to the bottom of his heart so she couldn't hurt any more of it.

That kind of love was the killing kind.


End file.
